


Tomorrow Will Be Kinder

by starbursts_and_kisses



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Arya is Queen, Canon Divergence, F/M, Future Fic, Unrequited Love, somewhat AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-29
Updated: 2013-08-29
Packaged: 2017-12-25 00:33:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/946567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starbursts_and_kisses/pseuds/starbursts_and_kisses
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An old friend visits the new Queen of Westeros. A sequel of sorts to Convergence.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tomorrow Will Be Kinder

_**I** _

Gendry Waters stared at his half-empty tankard, brows furrowed and mouth set in a grim line. Around him, the mood was festive, filled with the sounds of men playing drinking games and serving girls scurrying from table to table, eager to serve their customers. Only Gendry seemed aloof, his head bowed and his shoulders hunched as he brooded alone in his seat.

Once again he cursed himself for his rashness. He had ridden from the north of the Trident all the way to King’s Landing without rest, taking only his sword, a treasured helm, and a few handful of coins with him. He barely even had time, let alone the sense, to ask leave from the innkeeper at the Crossroads before he went galloping off the Kingsroad, looking as though a thousand hounds were after him. 

 _And all for what?_ Gendry thought bitterly. _For her?_

He remembered the day he found out about Arya. As a smith, he was no stranger to rumors surrounding the youngest Stark girl. Almost a year ago, he’d heard travelers swearing they saw her at Winterfell, saying she’d recaptured the North with her brothers and sister, but even then Gendry had not dared to hope. It was only when news reached them about the Blue Wedding that Gendry had finally allowed himself to entertain the possibility that maybe she was alive after all. 

But what madness, Gendry had said at that time as he listened to a wide-eyed lady’s maid recounting the story of how King Aegon shocked everyone by arriving at court with his new bride. 

“Are you sure it was Lady Arya Stark of Winterfell? Mayhaps you had mistaken her for her sister?” Gendry had insisted. 

The young maid shook her head. “No, there’s no mistaking Her Grace. It was Queen Arya he had on his arm, and what a beauty she was!” she gushed, face alight with admiration for the new queen. “She was as fierce as the tales they told of her, and twice as beautiful. Only she didn’t behave like a lady ought to, wearing men’s clothes and even bringing a scary beast wolf as her pet.” 

To him, that description sounded uncannily like Arya. But would the real Arya truly leave her home in the North to wed a Targaryen king? He was not sure. The Arya he knew was a lot of things - a cupbearer, a bug eater, a brave girl who fooled the world into thinking she was a boy – but a queen? Somehow he could not imagine her as that. 

So Gendry resolved that he would see this Wolf Queen for himself. He had no aspirations that a person of his status could simply march up to the castle and demand an audience with her, but perhaps if he was lucky enough, he might be able to get a glimpse of her from afar. 

“A flagon of your best wine, please,” a voice spoke, effectively breaking his thoughts. 

Gendry turned to his right, startled to see a stranger seated on the barstool next to him. Judging by the voice, the figure was female, although it was difficult to tell underneath the grey hooded cloak that shielded her face. But what surprised him was that he had not heard her come in. Either he was too caught up in his thoughts or the girl was highly skilled in the art of stealth. Gendry suspected it was the latter. 

The robust bartender with the nice gap-toothed smile brought out her order. But no sooner had the stranger taken a sip than the entrance door burst open, revealing three disgruntled members of the Kingsguard. The crowd parted for them as they headed straight for the quiet hooded figure beside Gendry. 

“Your Grace!” 

The stranger massaged her temples, let out a sigh, and Gendry could have sworn he heard her mutter something along the lines of “I should have worn another face, gods be damned.”

“Desmond, what have I told you about calling me by that title when we’re in the city? You might as well shout it out louder so the people all the way across the Narrow Sea could hear you.” 

“Fo-forgive me, Your Grace!” one of the Kingsguard exclaimed, thrusting the point of his sword on the wooden floorboards as he knelt in front of her. 

The rest of the Kingsguard soon followed, as well as the people inside the inn, cowed and beyond shocked into silence. One glance at the innkeeper showed that he was only one step further from wetting his pants. 

The oldest of the Kingsguard and the one nearest to Gendry saw him staring at the proceedings with his mouth hanging open and said, “You, boy! Show some respect and kneel before your Queen!” And in a move that was nearly impossible given the fact that he was on his knees, the old knight knocked him out of his seat by the pommel of his sword, until he found himself lying prostrate on the floor. 

“Arise, all of you,” the girl in the gray cloak commanded, and as they did so, she threw back her hood, giving them a clear view of her face. 

Dark penetrating eyes the color of winter greeted them. She wore no crown or jewels to adorn her, but she had the look of someone who could conquer the world if she chose to. And when she smiled that wolfish grin of hers, there was no mistaking it this time. Standing in front of them was Arya Stark of Winterfell, newly crowned Queen of Westeros. 

“A thousand pardons, Your Grace, for not having recognized you sooner! This is but a lowly establishment, not worthy of Your Grace’s time, and we are most humbled by your presence here,” the innkeeper sputtered, shaking like a leaf, his head bowed as he struggled to avoid looking the queen in the eye. 

Arya waved away his apologies. “Be at ease, kind sir,” she reassured him. “You’ve no need to concern yourself with titles when you’re around me. You can call me Arya if you like.” 

The poor innkeeper looked like he was about to faint, so horrified was he at this suggestion, that Arya was forced to withdraw her offer. “Or maybe not,” she said, looking resigned. “In any case, I assume you’ve heard about my Master of Coin’s latest proposition to raise shop taxes? What say you to this? Come, sit by my side. I’ll have your opinion on this matter.” 

“My queen, I find this most unwise. We must go back to the castle at once. It is not safe for you to linger here unprotected,” a raven-haired Kingsguard urged her. 

“Oh, you’re still here?” Arya spared him and his companions a glance. “Your duty is to protect the king, isn’t it?” 

“Yes, but we were given orders by the King’s Hand to find you and see you safely back to the Red Keep. Your Grace, if anything were to happen to you, the king –” 

“- will have you flayed and burnt to a crisp? Oh, I’ve no doubt he would,” the queen interrupted them with a faint smile. “But you know better than anyone that I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself. If anything, you should be worrying more about Connington. All this fretting for my welfare is not good for his health. Go on, I’ll be alright.” 

“Your Grace, we can’t,” another knight said, looking aghast. “Not without you.” 

Arya shrugged. “Then by all means, stay here a while. I’ll talk with these men first. After all, they’re my people now and I intend to get to know them better.” 

And that was what she did. Gendry, mostly forgotten by everyone, retreated to a nearby table and quietly watched the proceedings. It amazed him how easily she put the smallfolk at ease. When before they had been scared into submission, now a few of them were openly laughing along with her, as though she was just Arry the boy and not Arya the Queen. She called them in twos or threes, gesturing for them to sit with her and asking them about their day, while around her the members of the Kingsguard stood tense, watching the crowd for signs of discontent and violence. But there were none. It was obvious by now that the people of Westeros loved her. 

Gendry wasn’t even aware that he was gawking at her so intently until he met her gaze. Somehow, she’d sensed him staring. Her advice about winter crops died in the air as she tilted her head and observed him in turn. A long time passed. Then a huge smile broke through her face and before he knew it, she was standing up from her seat and running towards him. 

“By the gods,” she breathed when her face was just inches away from his. “Gendry?”

Said man flushed, his chest constricting at the unwanted attention. “M-m’lady,” he stammered. “Sorry, I mean, Your Grace.” 

Arya let out a laugh. It was the sweetest thing Gendry had heard in a while. “It is you!” she shouted with excitement. “I’d know that stubborn old look anywhere! Gods, I should have recognized you sooner. Why didn’t you say anything?” 

Gendry was so stunned by this sudden turn of events that he was rendered speechless. 

“Shocked that I’m still alive, are you?” Arya said when it was clear that Gendry could not go on. “Where have you been hiding yourself? Were you at King’s Landing all this time?” 

“I… No, Y-Your Grace. I was a smith, at the Inn at the Crossroads, but then I left and –” 

“You left? Well, _good_. We need more blacksmiths at the Red Keep.” 

And before Gendry knew what was going on, Arya had hauled him to his feet, said her farewells to the innkeeper and his customers, and left the inn with her escorts, dragging a reluctant and bewildered blacksmith with her. She didn’t even give him a choice. It was like being back at Harrenhal on the day they escaped, when Arya had told him to get Hot Pie and break open the lock of the armory with his hammer. 

“Seven hells, what am I doing?” was the last thing Gendry thought as he found himself mounted up on his horse. 

 

 ** _II_**  

Their journey through the streets of King’s Landing felt like a dream to Gendry.

Arya rode beside him, putting as much distance from the White Cloaks as she dared, but she could not escape drawing attention from the common folk for they made quite a sight – a slight hooded figure and a filthy, travel-worn blacksmith surrounded by none other than three of the finest knights in the Seven Kingdoms. 

Arya paid the crowd no mind, her attention solely focused on Gendry as she asked him questions about the remaining members of the Brotherhood. But when they reached the white marble plaza atop Visenya’s Hill where a huge, grand structure was being rebuilt, she suddenly reined her horse to a stop. 

“Is that…?” Gendry started to say as he followed the direction of her gaze.

“Yes,” Arya replied, and when she turned back to look at him, the smile she wore on her face was sad. “This used to be the Great Sept of Baelor, where Joffrey had my father executed for treason. I was there that day, did you know? I saw it all happen. My own father shamed and slaughtered like a lamb, my sister on her knees, sobbing hysterically… Even now the memory of that day still haunts me.” 

She closed her eyes and for an instant, she looked less like a queen and more like a lost child, but when she opened them again it was as though the moment had never happened. “King’s Landing will always hold painful memories for me, true, but Aegon…” Her face softened when she said his name. “He tries so hard to make this a better place for me, he really does. In fact, it was his idea to tear down Baelor’s Sept to build more houses for the people. Father would have liked that, I think.” 

“I am glad that the king loves you so, Your Grace,” Gendry expressed. But if what he said was true, then why did he feel so miserable all of a sudden?

 

 **_III_ **

By the time they reached the Red Keep, it was almost dark. They were greeted by a harried-looking page and what appeared to be Arya’s handmaidens. She caught Gendry’s surprised expression as they came hurrying towards her and raised one perfectly arched brow at him, as though daring him to tease her for having handmaidens now. 

Everything that happened after that was a blur. Arya dismissed everyone but him, and without even waiting to see if he would follow her, she was off, and once again, Gendry was left with no choice but to trail after her. She strode purposefully through the castle walls, sweeping past diligent servants and disapproving nobles with their hungry, watchful eyes, and did not stop until she reached a pair of heavily guarded oak doors banded with iron. When they saw her, the sentries bowed and let her through, and after only a moment of hesitation, Gendry followed. 

He found himself in a vast chamber lavishly furnished with Myrish rugs, wall hangings, and golden tapestries depicting fiery, three-headed dragons. In the center of the room was a long table laden with fruit, tenderly roasted beef, honeyed custards, and an odd assortment of delicacies too fine and foreign for Gendry to name. 

The room was airy, with large windows overlooking the bay, and looking out from one of those windows was a lone figure of a man with his back to them. He had long, light-colored strands that appeared to shimmer blue when the light hit them, and though his stance was relaxed, there was a proud set to his shoulders that suggested noble birth. 

Gendry watched as Arya ran and tackled the man from behind with a force that was astonishing for a girl of her size. Startled, the man spun around and tried to make a grab for her but she gracefully danced out of his reach. 

“Ha! Is that the best you can do?” she taunted him. 

“Arya…” the blue-haired stranger whined, enunciating the last syllables in a way that made him sound like a child.

“Oh, fine.” Arya stood still long enough for the man to wrap his arms around her. She whispered something in his ear that made him laugh and allowed herself to be kissed lightly on the forehead. 

There was such tenderness in the gesture that watching them made Gendry feel a bit like an intruder, but try as he might, he could not seem to look away. A flush crept up his neck, and he had the disturbing feeling that they could have done anything right then and there and they wouldn’t even have noticed him. For some reason, that thought bothered him. 

But he must have made a sound because suddenly he found himself staring at a pair of curious violet eyes. 

“Who is this man?” 

Arya, for her part, grabbed the object of her affection by the hand and dragged him over to Gendry. “Aegon, meet Gendry Waters. He’s an old friend of mine. I met him years ago, back when I was pretending to be a boy. We escaped Harrenhal together,” she explained. 

“Your Grace,” Gendry stammered as he went down on one knee. 

“Well met, Gendry Waters,” his king said. “You may rise.” 

The first thing that came to Gendry’s mind when he saw Aegon Targaryen, the Sixth of his Name, was that he was so unbelievably _pretty,_ it was almost unfair _._ He had the Targaryen features – stormy violet eyes, long, feminine eyelashes, and a face meant to break maidens’ hearts. Compared to him, Gendry felt like a sewer rat. 

“Gendry’s to smith for us now,” Arya chattered on, oblivious to his discomfort. “He’ll make you a marvelous dragon’s helm if you wish. He’s good at things like that. Or maybe we can make him a knight. Oh! Or better yet, a _lord._ I bet Jon Connington would love that.” 

The dragon king looked on in amusement at his wife. “Arya, slow down,” he said, unable to contain his laughter. “Have you even asked the poor man what he wanted? I bet you just dragged him off here the minute you saw him.” 

“Of course I asked him first, stupid! Or did I?” A frown creased Arya’s face as she realized her folly. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter. Gendry will surely agree. Won’t you, Gendry?” 

“I…” Gendry struggled to think of the right words to say at this moment. “I’ve no wish to be a lord or a knight, if it please you, Your Grace. As to being a smith… I haven’t… I… I’m not quite sure yet, to be honest.”

Arya sighed. “Must you be so stubborn?” she countered. “And stop calling me ‘Your Grace’, will you? You know how much I hate titles.” 

Gendry was glad that at least some things never changed. But he knew she wouldn’t stop until she got what she wanted. Luckily for him, Aegon Targaryen intervened. “Perhaps it would be better if you would give him some time to think this through, dear wife,” he suggested, smiling kindly at the blacksmith. 

The queen bit her lip obstinately, looking as though she was about to protest, but one touch from Aegon and she calmed down. “Oh, alright,” she finally relented, rolling her eyes. “I’ll give him one day to decide.”

 

 **_IV_ **

The next morning, Gendry woke up, half-expecting to be back in his old chambers. Instead, he found himself surrounded by unfamiliar walls, thousands of miles away from home, with no clue as to what to do next. 

When a serving girl came in to bring him breakfast, he summoned his courage to ask her about the queen’s whereabouts. 

“Her Grace is down in the courtyard, practicing her needlework,” the girl informed him, unfazed by his question. 

 _Arya, doing needlework?_ The thought of that brought a smile to Gendry’s lips. He couldn’t imagine the vicious little she-wolf succumbing to such dreary work, but he supposed even queens had their duties. 

He left the room as soon as he had broken his fast and went in search of the forge, figuring he might as well make himself useful while he was here. No one stopped him as he walked past endless corridors and sealed doorways, but after a moment, he finally conceded that he was lost. 

He was about to turn back the way he came from when he heard distant shouts and the distinct sound of metal crashing against metal. Curious, he leaned over the railing and peered down. In the middle of the courtyard, a mock battle was taking place. There were four combatants - three armoured members of the City Watch bearing black breastplates ornamented with four golden disks against one unarmoured figure wielding a sword barely as thin as a needle. 

 _Arya?_ The more Gendry laid eyes on the lithe figure dancing her way around the courtyard, the more convinced he was that it was her. The men easily outnumbered her, but she met parry after parry, moving with such blinding speed it almost made Gendry’s eyes hurt, and there was something exotic about the way she held herself, like she was a predator toying with her prey, that he almost felt sorry for her opponents. 

 _This isn’t fighting,_ he thought in amazement. _This is art._  

“Might I hazard a guess as to who you might be?” 

Gendry tore his gaze away from the fight and came face to face with Tyrion Lannister himself. He looked frightening, with his large mismatched eyes, grotesque head, and scarred face, but if the dwarf was bothered by Gendry’s intrusive stare, he did not show it. 

“Blue eyes, black hair, strong jaw... Oh yes. You have all the makings of a Baratheon. Perhaps one of Robert’s own, yes?” 

Gendry’s cheeks turned red. He considered denying it, knowing that no one would be able to prove it, but he had a feeling the Imp would not believe him anyway. “I have thought so, my lord, but I am not certain,” was the closest thing to the truth that he could say. 

Tyrion nodded as though he had expected this answer. “Well, as it happens, I have a soft spot for bastards,” he drawled. He motioned towards the combatants below. “Just ask Her Grace the Queen. The only reason she even allows me to retain my seat in the Council is because her bastard half-brother vouched for me. If it weren’t for Jon Snow, who considers me somewhat of a friend, all of King’s Landing would witness just how deep her love for Lannisters run.” 

Gendry could say nothing to this. Was the dwarf always this talkative? Unbidden, his gaze drifted back towards Arya. 

The Imp sensed the direction of his stare and smiled knowingly at him. “Our queen is a ferocious little thing, isn’t she?” he said. “They say she is more wolf than girl. She is willful, impatient, and persists in wearing down old traditions. My fellow members of the Council despair of her, the lords of Westeros both hate and fear her, and yet the smallfolk love her. Peculiar, isn’t it?” 

“She is a good queen, my lord, and wise,” Gendry told him, immediately rising to Arya’s defense. 

“That she is,” Tyrion agreed. “If anything, she keeps His Grace in check. The dragon king is no Aerys, true, but he has a fierce temper when provoked, and the only person that can calm him down is Arya Stark.” 

Gendry thought back to last night, at the easy way Arya relaxed at Aegon’s touch, and reflected on how alike the two monarchs were. His heart constricted at the thought. 

“You know, I’ve seen that look before,” Tyrion Lannister observed. 

Gendry frowned. “What look?” 

“That look you have on your face,” Tyrion told him. “It’s the same look Robert Baratheon used to have whenever he talked about Lyanna Stark, the woman he could never have.” 

 _Perhaps history does have a way of repeating itself,_ Gendry mused sadly.

 

**_V_ **

That very same day, he made his decision. He walked past the throngs of people lingering near the Iron Gate, his hands clutching the reins of his horse, and allowed himself one last glimpse of the castle. From a distance, he saw its pale red stonewalls, massive parapets, and great bronze portcullises, and for a moment he was tempted to go back. 

But he couldn’t. He knew that now. No matter how badly he would have liked to stay by Arya’s side, he knew that there was no place for him there. He’d lost that right the moment he abandoned her for the Brotherhood Without Banners all those years ago. She’d offered him a chance back then, a chance to be part of her pack, but he’d refused her, foolish boy that he was. And now things were different. She had a crown, a kingdom, and a husband who loves her. Against all that, what could he possibly offer her? 

He wondered where Arya was now and what she was doing. Was she looking for him, by any chance? Was she even aware that he was gone? And if so, would she care? 

He imagined how she would react once she sees the present he’d left for her. Perhaps her forehead would crease in that adorable way she did sometimes when she was upset. She might bite her lip and call him stupid names, all the while cradling the helm he’d left on top of his bed. 

It was a shiny silver thing, shaped in the form of a direwolf, and it was Gendry’s best work yet. He’d made it years ago in a fit of grief, when he’d thought her truly gone then, and now it was the closest thing to a goodbye he could give her. 

She need only say the word and he would have gladly offered her his heart, his sword, and his life, but he knew she’d only want the helm and nothing more.  

 

**Author's Note:**

> So this was a bit pointless. I admit, I wasn't too pleased with the way this turned out, and by tomorrow I'll probably regret posting this, but oh well. Sorry I had to write about Gendry being friendzoned. But on the bright side, at least he can now join Jorah Mormont's club :))


End file.
